in praise of teachers
I've been spending a lot of time around teachers lately, being that I'm training to be one, for unclear reasons.
I wasn't sure what to make of them at first, these matronly, stocky, middle-aged women named Bonnie and Bettie, full-bosomed, with perfectly coiffed hair and sensible glasses. Teachers have seemed like depleted people to me, people who'd surely abandoned passion for comfort, who'd silenced themselves for a pension, who awoke with the dawn, were flawlessly punctual and always prepared, who used words like oaktag and goldenrod like nothing.
These are strong women.
These are women who love. They are women with such wisdom, who dispense it without a second thought: Christopher, asked calmly, do you think what you just said to Alison was appropriate? (With the slightest bit of a smirk, but really a smile that says I am not angry at you, I simply want you to learn to live with each other.)
These are not the teachers who desire to control or silence or whip into shape. These are learned matriarchs, with an enduring love for children and an pure desire to see them learn and grow; they are not pushovers or sellouts but people who spend their mornings instructing little human beings in how to be people; how to respect themselves and each other and how to be continuously excited about every new thing in the world. Who listen with the greatest respect and kindness to every "my mom took me to the library yesterday and we got a book and it was about..." and every tummyache and every "he pushed me" and who can contain it not out of any bit of self-denial, but out of an abundance of love.
These were the women who taught me. I can never quite be these women, but I can learn from their stolid presence, their humor and their strength. May they go from strength to strength.
I wasn't sure what to make of them at first, these matronly, stocky, middle-aged women named Bonnie and Bettie, full-bosomed, with perfectly coiffed hair and sensible glasses. Teachers have seemed like depleted people to me, people who'd surely abandoned passion for comfort, who'd silenced themselves for a pension, who awoke with the dawn, were flawlessly punctual and always prepared, who used words like oaktag and goldenrod like nothing.
These are strong women.
These are women who love. They are women with such wisdom, who dispense it without a second thought: Christopher, asked calmly, do you think what you just said to Alison was appropriate? (With the slightest bit of a smirk, but really a smile that says I am not angry at you, I simply want you to learn to live with each other.)
These are not the teachers who desire to control or silence or whip into shape. These are learned matriarchs, with an enduring love for children and an pure desire to see them learn and grow; they are not pushovers or sellouts but people who spend their mornings instructing little human beings in how to be people; how to respect themselves and each other and how to be continuously excited about every new thing in the world. Who listen with the greatest respect and kindness to every "my mom took me to the library yesterday and we got a book and it was about..." and every tummyache and every "he pushed me" and who can contain it not out of any bit of self-denial, but out of an abundance of love.
These were the women who taught me. I can never quite be these women, but I can learn from their stolid presence, their humor and their strength. May they go from strength to strength.
posted by Professor Purple at 12:24 AM
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